It had been a village once. Bandits had come long ago and had plundered it, slaughtered or carried off the living, and left behind a husk of a town that could only haunt itself.
Curiosity quickened his steps. He walked across the short, grass-clad soil, letting the unfamiliar memories pull him along, turning his head to take in each small sign that insisted this place had mattered before it died.
Soon, he reached a space that resembled a small village square. At its center stood a battered well of old stone.
He approached and leaned in, scanning the rim, and saw a broken wooden bucket set to one side. Inside the bucket lay two peculiar plants.
At first glance, with long, turnip-like bodies, a frill of long green leaves, and trailing roots, they looked like ordinary vegetables. But Adyr knew better; recognition sharpened his focus.
